The Other Woman
by LunaStellaCat
Summary: Lyall Lupin gets a second chance. This is drafted from an idea after reading the Pottermore information. It's written for a challenge as well. Thanks for reading. Any reviews or critiques would be awesome and make my day:)
1. Letters in Plain Sight

She stopped talking, and Lyall got obsessed. He fell back on what he understood and went back to the familiar. He started searching for answers. After being married some twenty-something years, they'd become the same person. It was odd how that had just happened, and neither he nor Hope realized it. They let things get too routine, too comfortable. Maybe he'd let this happen. Had he become too obsessed with work or finding answers in his lycanthropy research? He was going nowhere.

He crossed a line. When she switched on the range and stepped into the bathroom, Lyall searched her handbag. It was a red one. Perhaps it was new because he didn't recall seeing it before. Oh, wonderful, now he was imagining some lover sneaking off with his wife on afternoons whilst he divided his time among his research projects. He travelled for work all the time because he was away on business.

They needed the money to make ends meet, although things had gotten easier with one less person in the house. Remus lived with one of his friends now. Lyall used to work at the Ministry of Magic. As time passed, Lyall realized he made more money on his own investigating apparitions, and there was something to be said about being your own boss. The jobs fluctuated, really. Whenever things got really tight, he batted for the other team and worked as a "paranormal investigator" for the Muggles. This usually led to nothing and came along as easy money; he discovered a Boggart in his deaf neighbor's broom cupboard once, a nice surprise, so he never truly knew what he was going to find. This had the added bonus of making Hope laugh.

Lyall took the plunge. He flipped through stuffed envelopes and noticed the majority of them came from a Dr. Wilder or a Dr. Johnson. There were also white paper bags with stuff in them. Knowing he had a good five minutes at most, he shoved the papers back inside and added the pasta to boiling water. He finished up the spaghetti carbonara, whisking the eggs together with a fork and smiling at her when she came down the corridor.

She sat down at the table and fumbled around for something. Lyall dished up two plates and bought them over to the table. Hope showed no interest in the food. "Where is my handbag?"

Lyall, using a spoon and fork with his spaghetti, gestured for her to eat. They'd move on to the other stuff later. If she waited to bury the truth from him, it could wait a little longer. When she made no move, he put down his utensils, deciding to drop the act and stop pretending nothing was wrong.

He drummed his fingers on the table after grabbing her handbag. "Are you going to tell me, or do you want me to ask you?"

She stared at him, momentarily confused. Hope rested her chin on her hand and played with her food. "People don't hide things in plain sight if they don't want you to know."

Lyall let this sink in. She had been mulling this over for while. Had this affair been going on with Dr. Wilder for years then? Lyall knew he was blind to things he didn't want to see. Lyall was not a stupid man; he was quite aware of his shortcomings, even if he chose not to do anything about them. For instance, he never placed his socks in the hamper despite the fact that the damn thing stood mere feet away from the bed.

"Who is Dr. Wilder?" Lyall demanded, wanting it all out on the table. He could take it. Annoyed that she played with her food like a small child, he took out his wand and made the food, the distraction, disappear.

"Do you even know what a doctor is?" Hope put a hand over her left eye. "I expected you to figure this out without me having to spell it out for you, Lyall. A doctor, a physician, is what I guess you would call a Healer. That's the closest thing I can think off the top of my head. I have an awful migraine, so we're just going to do this really quickly. If I tell you, may I have my bag, please?"

Lyall nodded curtly, certain he didn't want to hear this. How exactly did they handle this? What kind of a person, even if she was unhappy, threw away everything after two decades together? Who would tell their son? They were Catholics, not the devoutest of the lot, yet he didn't really believe in divorce. He'd heard of this happening. Once the children left, the empty nest syndrome or whatever it was called kicked in, and seemingly happy couples parted ways.

Hurt, he at least wanted his say. He reached out and squeezed her hand. "I love you, Hope, and whatever this is ..."

"I have a brain tumor, Lyall." She said it matter-of-factly like she was beyond tears. "You want to know where I go after lunch when I'm supposed to go back to work? I go to the beach because I forget absolutely everything when I'm there."

Lyall decided to play dumb, although he thought he followed her. "What?"

"I told myself it was migraines. I didn't want it to be anything and left it alone. I was ... I am frightened." She took steadying breaths and closed her eyes. Lyall gave her the handbag. Hope held it. As she emptied it, she laid its contents out on the table. There were no fewer than five pill bottles. "Dr. Wilder is a neurologist. I've been seeing him for six months. Not romantically."

Lyall, not liking the way this was headed, took a wild guess because he wanted to seem like he wasn't an idiot. His heart dropped into his stomach. "He's a brain doctor? Because you get headaches."

"Yes. I have a mass lodged in my brain. Migraines are a lot worse than headaches, really, but I've told you this. You've seen it."

Lyall missed something that was right in front of him. They took each other by their word because things usually turned out fine. There were rough patches, mostly financial ones, whatever happened they got through it together. There were days she laid in bed in the dark with the curtains drawn to block out the light. Loud noises disrupted her peace. He called these her dark days, since Hope only left the room to use the bathroom or make a cup of tea. A cold compress sometimes helped; this blocked the light. Whenever he'd asked if she needed anything or offered her a simple pain remedy, she covered her eyes with her hand. She did that now.

"Dr. Wilder started me on pain management yesterday, and he referred me to a psychologist. That's Dr. Johnson."

"What's that? A psychologist?" Lyall screwed up his face, thinking hard. He always liked to throw out a guess at these Muggle things because the explanations or the details sometimes got left out. He got up, hating this feeling of uselessness, and washed the dishes by hand after putting on the kettle.

Hope reached up and took the clip out of her hair. She set it on the table and shook her head slightly, letting her blonde hair fall, reading over her pill bottles. "It's someone to talk to."

He stopped her right there. "You can't talk to me?"

"It's not like that, love," she said, reading the instructions for her makeshift apothecary. "It's easier talking to a stranger."

"Who isn't your husband," he hedged, no longer bothering to disguise his anger. He lied straight through his teeth. "I get it."

"This is why I didn't bother telling you. Because I knew you'd do this. You're probably crafting a plan in your head right now." Hope sighed when he answered with silence, which she took to mean she was right. "This is a normal problem, not a magical one, Lyall, and I beg you not to waste your time. You can't fix this."

"Watch me." He hissed through gritted teeth.

Hope inhaled, taking in a shaky breath. He knew she fought tears. Lyall wanted to cry, too, honestly, but if she wasn't going there, neither was he. "I'm dying, Lyall."

Lyall frowned, trying not to look at her, knocking up some scrambled eggs toast, for he felt better if she got something in her stomach. He hadn't been an utterly clueless idiot. Her clothes no longer fit and hung loosely around her frame. Hope had always been a thin woman who liked to eat, until she stopped. The long walks she took nowadays explained these away. Although they had enjoyed each other's company, they liked their private time, too. Neither of them had any truly close friends because they had jumped from place to place.

The excuses wore them thin. He placed the breakfast and tea in front of her, and Hope ate it. Lyall laughed softly, unable to help himself, remembering one of the lies they gave Remus to tell his friends at school. They recycled these so much with family and friends, and co-workers, the words hardly carried any meaning anymore: Remus's mother was ill.

"What is it?" Hope set her fork down, tipped the third pill bottle into her hand, washed them down, and started eating again. "We share jokes. Come on. I'm not with Dr. Johnson, either, if that's what you're thinking. He has a boyfriend."

"Really?" Lyall opened a few of the correspondences. One was an invoice of services rendered by the said Dr. Johnson. "You have to pay for any of this?"

"NHS covers it." Hope spread eggs onto her toast.

Lyall held up two fingers; this was the second piece she'd failed it fill him in on. He got this one because she'd explained the Muggle healthcare system to him before. It was funded by the government through taxation, and she wasn't really a fan of it, faithful contributor or no. Hope was forever in a funny position because she was both. Whilst she left her life behind to be with him, she still worked at insurance firms and held an employment history with gaps throughout it.

Hope took her time eating, noting he didn't share the joke. She relaxed again, slipping back into her usual self. "What's funny?"

"Oh, it's nothing." Lyall knew it really was nothing.

Hope made a face, which urged him, at least, to fill her in. He got up, did the dishes again, this time by magic, and made himself a cup of tea when he refilled hers. They sat down as the dishes clinked together and the counters washed themselves. He passed her a cup and started on the newspaper crossword. On those nights he actually made it home at a reasonable hour, they followed this ritual after dinner. Usually one of them cooked whilst the other one washed up. He gave her a pass tonight.

As she was tired, he helped her to bed and called it an early night. What were they going to do anyway? He found his glasses on the bedside table and flipped through the pages. They were boring people, and to be honest, he liked this about their relationship. Remus certainly kept things interesting. This reminded him of something; she thought he was dodging her question.

He sat up, draping his arm over her shoulder and smiling again as the thought wandered back into his head. So, you know when we used to ask Remus to tell people you were ill?"

"Yes." An awkward silence followed, and she read over his shoulder, eventually giving him the answer. Lyall wasn't going to say it. "Shouldn't we feel better about ourselves since we're no longer lying? 'To hold a station or harbor; to divide into four equal parts'. Quarter."

Lyall, trying to figure out the first answer, liked to go in order. He got lost because the hint about the hare did nothing for him. "What?"

"Nine down, seven letters," she said, pointing it out with her finger. Hope snuggled closer to him.

"Ah, nice one, dear." He filled it in. Always meaning to start out with good intentions, Hope threw his habit out the window if she got a couple good ones in first. She gave him another answer a few minutes later, and he kissed her on the head. The hint of a boxed bride went way over his head. He paused, smiling getting back on track when Hope spelled it out for him. "What's a casquette girl?"

"In France, they used to sell virgins to the colonies, readymade brides." Hope read a lot. There were always three or four books she had going at a time, things she bought from consignment shops, and the woman read anything and everything. She did not share his appalled expression. "I didn't say it was pretty."

Lyall and Hope finished the crossword in about twenty minutes. He didn't even have to put the thing down because he got frustrated with it and come back to it with fresh eyes. Whilst he did get up to grab a snack, some chocolate cake they hid in the large bread box, they wrapped things up nicely in one sitting. These days, they stored sweets away out of habit. When Remus lived here, this cake would not have survived the night. He would've left a funny note about the cake mysteriously passing away in the middle of the night or something that followed along those lines.

He took her empty plate and set it on top of his before he set it on his bedside table. There were endless questions he wanted to ask her before she nodded off. She definitely looked tired. Seeing everything in a new light rather than passing it off as age, he suddenly found himself rethinking every small detail. Lyall couldn't help it. Would he need to help her with her pills? Was she on a special, regulated diet? Had he done anything to make things worse?

Since she wanted to get this discussion over with as painlessly as possible for the both of them, she answered his questions patiently and waited for more. This was his chance to learn about the sleeping monster. No, Dr. Wilder had given her this plastic pill organizer thing, though writing the dosages down would be helpful. No, of course he hadn't done anything wrong. These things happened. If anything, Hope said, she should have gone to see someone sooner instead of dismissing this as mere headaches.

"What're you doing?" He started to get up when she shook her head, trying to tell hm she was fine.

An image of Remus flashed in his mind; his boy often got violently ill whenever his transformations first started. Things got better after a few years, yet there was no denying those things were nasty. Remus used to stop eating the day before the full moon appeared. Before they sought help from a Healer, Lyall didn't know this was indeed doing his son more harm than good. It was no good, really. Lyall took his wand off the bedside table and conjured a large, battered saucepan. This thing usually stayed in the back of the cupboard.

He made the correct call just in time; Lyall held Hope's hair back and waited until she was done. They'd been down this road countless times before with Remus. Whilst she might be ashamed or frustrated, he compared this to making the bed every morning. After he cleaned her up, he did the dishes for the third time that evening and carried the sterilized pot back into the bedroom just in case. It was better to be safe than sorry. He'd also grabbed a glass of water and one of the pill bottles she'd asked for.

"What're these things?" He read the label and tipped two into his hand before offering them to her.

"Pills I take before nine o'clock. They help me sleep." It was 8:58. She took them together and sipped some water before getting up to brush her teeth and wash her face. She came back to bed with a soft, green blanket.

"Isn't that Remus's?" Lyall picked up a copy of the _Evening Prophet_ , asking her if she wanted a second round with a crossword puzzle. Hope shook her head. Lyall never bothered actually reading the village newspaper because he went straight for the puzzles.

"This thing? Feel this thing." Hope got back in bed and nodded when he touched the bed. "No, this was mine way back in the day. A friend gave this to me when I moved into the flat over the bookshop. Remus thinks it belongs to him, maybe, because he stole it. I don't play that finders keepers nonsense. I took it out of one of his boxes the day he moved in with Peter."

"So, what you're telling me is you're both thieves. Nice." Lyall chuckled when she didn't even bother acknowledging this with a response. Hope laid down beside him and fell asleep within minutes.

The doctors, these physicians, had given her a year. Hope lasted about nine months and simply fell asleep one afternoon while reading a book. And then she went.


	2. The Closeted Librarian

The Muggle still thought it was Wednesday. Lyall didn't bother correcting him because he could actually use an extra day; he knew nothing about this place. He was running behind for no good reason, for time had simply escaped them. The Muggle would be gone for a long weekend. Lyall had five days. Well, technically, just to be on the safe side, he had four. There was no telling if or when the Muggle, a real estate agent, would catch his mistake. They desperately wanted this place off the market, and the villagers simply wanted this place burned down. An "unfortunate accident", or scheduled arson, wouldn't solve the problem. Never mind someone would end up in prison.

Fire would not solve the problem. Well, the poltergeist would no longer empty a knife block and play darts with the poor Muggle's head. He'd actually manage to get through an open house. Even if the agency sold this place, the new homeowners would unknowingly inherit a haunted (Nobody mentioned spiritual beings in any real estate contract because this was just plain stupid. Wizards didn't go for that sort of thing, either.) This house, which looked nice from the outside, had been shuffled through the market for five years.

Lyall had spent the previous week tracking down the previous owner. This wasn't hard to do. Property deeds stayed in courthouses, and the histories got tracked back to the last seven owners. The rich places, like castles or manors, went back centuries. Lyall loved those. Those places had names to begin with. It wasn't difficult for anyone to wander into a courthouse, especially the villages ones because the workers there were bored out of their minds. A couple years ago, he'd chatted up a clerk and unknowingly invited her for tea. As his wife had been gone for almost thirteen years now, he'd grown accustomed to being alone, and his dating skills had gone way past rusty.

The previous owner, after Lyall bought him a few rounds, had eventually opened up about a man called Abraham. He didn't give away much, yet something was better than nothing. Fishing the key out of his trousers pocket, Lyall studied the deed and the attached property map. He checked the place out. There were three, no, four bedrooms and two bathrooms. He daren't go into one of the bathrooms because the floor was obviously rotted. Perhaps it was water damage.

Lyall went back into the large kitchen and scratched the wallpaper with his fingernail. Holding his lit wand in his teeth, Lyall noticed writing underneath. He peeled back a little of the yellowed wallpaper. A saucepan hit the wall, and Lyall stepped back. This didn't take him by surprise. So, Abraham was crawling out on the first day in broad daylight.

Lyall pretended not to notice and scribbled the letters on a notepad before he slipped it back into his trousers pocket. With free reign of the place, he checked the usual stuff and walked over to the sink to turn on the tap. No water. He'd expected that. The electricity probably wasn't on either, because there was no resident here. Sleet had started to fall outside. It was quiet because it was Christmastime, and nobody celebrated at this deserted, neglected place. Lyall went to close the window, sighed when it jammed, and jumped when someone tapped him on the shoulder. His head hit the window.

Cursing, he straightened up, made to hurriedly stow his wand away, and froze when he spotted a tall young black man with a Gryffindor scarf draped around his neck. The kid had dreadlocks and waved at him enthusiastically whilst he opened a large bag of crips.

"What're you doing here?" The kid perched himself on the dated countertop.

"I would ask you the same question," said Lyall, checking the back of his head. He was fine.

"I get bored, so I come here. I live over there," he said, taking his hand out of the bag and pointing to the left with one of his greasy fingers. He mentioned in an offhand way that breaking and entering was against the law, grinning from ear to ear. Lyall showed him both the property deed and the key. He shrugged, for he couldn't care less about the law. He reminded Lyall a little of his own son as he offered his hand, wiped the crumbs on his trousers, and offered his hand again. "I'm Lee Jordan."

"Lyall Lupin," he said, shaking the boy's hand briefly. He shook his head when Lee offered the bag to him. Lee started eating crisps again. He laughed when Lee opened a paper bag and opened a fizzy drink, making himself at home. "You realize this place is haunted?"

"Oh, Mr. Blanchard? Abe? Abraham!" Lee raised his voice, smirking when a whisk landed beside him. Lee picked it up and waved the whisk at Lyall. He tossed to in the air, and Lyall caught it, curious. "I'm waiting for him to knock something up. Potato soup sounds good. Hey, are you related to Professor Lupin?"

"He's my son," said Lyall, placing the whisk on the counter and searching the cupboards. He smiled, instantly liking this kid's laid-back nature. The cupboards held an assortment of mismatched pots and pans. There was a cask iron skillet, too. He straightened up and walked over to the boy; Lee held out the crisps again when Lyall's stomach growled. Lyall, smirking, took some. " So, Mr. Jordan, is my son a good teacher?"

"He's the best Defense Against the Dark Arts teacher I've ever had. He's quiet."

Lee reached in the bag again and offered him a frizzy drink. He looked impressed when Lyall opened the bottle on the countertop. He talked for a while, following Lyall around the house. The noise was nice, really, for Lyall usually didn't let others accompany him.. Lee was a talker, make no mistake, and Lyall wondered when the kid last took a breath. He had a good wireless voice. If Lyall could get a word in edgewise, something he didn't care to do at the moment, he would've suggested the kid go into a broadcasting career after finishing school.

"You're quiet, too. Mellow." Lee stopped talking. It took Lyall a minute to realize he'd asked him a question. "What House were you in at Hogwarts?"

"Hufflepuff." Lyall, tapped the walls with his hand as they headed upstairs. Lee grumbled, saying something about a Quidditch match. It dawned on Lyall a little too late, of course, that a lot of the stuff Lee covered had to do with Quidditch facts and stats. The next question was an obvious one. Lyall, never much of a Quidditch follower or a sports fan, in general, came up with the first answer that popped into his head. He hoped this was an actual team. " The Arrows?"

Lee raised his eyebrows, taking this answer as good enough. When he started reeling off stats again, Lyall nodded politely, not really listening again. He wanted to investigate the message on the wall, but he didn't want to anger the poltergeist here too early. When they walked into one of the small bedrooms, Lyall conjured his two rucksacks and his sleeping things: a sleeping bag, a pillow, an unbreakable lantern, a few books, and his night clothes.

"You're a ghost hunter?" Lee stood in the doorway and smirked as he watched Lyall fold his pajamas and place them on the pillow. Lyall nodded, checking for a box of matches in his trousers pocket. Hope had always insisted he carry one of these. Lee checked his pockets and read through a list scribbled on parchment, annoyed. "Damn. I forgot to pick up chicken stock for my grandmother. You need anything?"

Yes, actually, I do." Lyall checked his supplies. Even after years of doing this, he still forgot the necessities. He'd packed in a hurry earlier today. He handed Lee some Galleons and Sickles as the boy scribbled on his parchment. "Toilet paper, digestive biscuits, and black olives."

He snacked on black olives. Lee's curious look told him this was a strange request, but Lee jotted it down and went to go fetch groceries. Whilst Lee was gone, Lyall updated his notes. Lee Jordan had given him a name, which was extremely helpful. Before it got too dark, Lyall would head to the library and do some research, although he might not need to bother if this said Abraham Blanchard was a chatty chap like Lee. Lee returned in a half hour. He handed over a few other food stuffs, probably judging by the state of Lyall's clothes. Lyall laughed, finding individually wrapped chocolate cakes at the bottom, and reminded himself not to let a fifteen year old kid to do the shopping.

"Thanks very much, Lee," said Lyall, walking back into the kitchen with him. He let Lee keep the change, but he didn't take it. "Stop by if you want, Mr. Jordan, because I'm slumming here until Sunday evening."

Lee grabbed his things and shouted goodbye to the dead resident. "Cheers, Abe! Christmas in a haunted house. Should be fun. Bye, Lyall."

"Goodbye, Mr. Jordan," he said, rubbing his hands together.

Lee left out the front door. After he locked the door, Lyall headed to the library to do some research. Hope had taught him to use a microfiche and a card catalog, both of which came in handy. Ghosts and poltergeists were not the same thing, although the regular person often disagreed with him on this matter. Ghosts were spirits who stayed behind; poltergeists were energies who reeked havoc and sometimes moved stuff to get attention. As he was the expert on Non-Human Spiritous Apparitions, Lyall was right, although he rarely bothered pressing this. A person who is already turned off by you will see you as an arrogant prick the moment he or she hears you're an expert. Lyall had been down this road enough times to know it never ended well. He had no library card, which normally would have been a problem, unless he knew how to talk down a librarian. Luckily, Lyall did. It dawned on him a half hour later he was in the wrong library.

An hour later, around six o'clock, Lyall showed up at Hogwarts Castle. Unfortunately, Abraham wasn't in the mood for a chat when he arrived back at the house, so he fell back onto the research route. Remus met him at the entrance doors. As it was a couple days before the full moon, Remus reminded his father of a man on his deathbed. It was late at night. With all the security measures put in place because of Sirius Black, Lyall found getting into the castle was a headache. It hardly seemed worth it with the Dementors, but he really, really needed some answers.

Lyall was on a time crunch here. He had until Monday morning at the latest to figure this out. Remus was his man on the inside, and Lyall took this advantage. It was late at night, and there weren't many students around with the threat of Sirius Black. When they met in the Entrance Hall, Remus embraced him. Lyall placed his hands on Remus's shoulders, checking him out, although he knew full well Remus was doing the same thing.

As the students were at dinner in the Great Hall, the place was quiet. Lyall froze, his hands raised when some cat approached him and circled around him, hissing. Lyall was severely allergic to cats, so it took everything in him not to give this fur ball a good kick. Argus Filch, the caretaker, came limping out of the Great Hall towards them, his jowls quivering.

"Visitors are supposed to be give at least seventy-two hours notice with security measures in place," hissed Mr. Filch, his eyes popping dangerously out of his head. He held what appeared to be a security probe.

"I didn't know that," said Lyall quietly, keeping his eyes on the cat.

"Yeah, I know, I forgot." Remus grimaced apologetically at the cat. He turned to Mr. Filch. "My sorry, Mr. Filch, I should have given you ample notice, but this just came up. This is my father. He's here to do some research."

"Seventy-two hours, Professor," said Mr. Filch, glaring at Lyall. Lyall felt the familiar itching sensation tighten in his throat.

"Yes, you've said that," said Remus patiently, glancing at his watch. Lyall understood he wasn't being rude, but Filch probably didn't. Remus pressed on because he understood time was Galleons in his father's line of work. Lyall went home empty handed whenever he missed a promised deadline. "Mr. Filch, if he was helping Sirius Black inside the castle, where exactly is he hiding him? In his coat? You have my word he is not sneaking anything into Hogwarts."

Lyall didn't want to ask this strange man to call off his cat.

"Fine!" Filch lowered his security device and backed off, calling his cat after him as he disappeared back into the Great Hall. "Come with me, Mrs. Norris, my sweet."

Lyall followed Remus to the library. They caught up and swapped stories. When Lyall told him that he worked with Muggles to do some light work and keep busy, Remus laughed. Like his mother, Remus had always found Lyall's interactions with Muggles downright hilarious because he definitely didn't know what he was doing. He kind of flailed around like an idiot. True, Lyall had somewhat mastered the act of dressing like a Muggle, yet he felt out of place. The credit for this went to his wife, of course, who had dragged him to Christmas parties at the insurance agency to prove a point.

"Did you give the correct change?" Remus waited, watching his father squirm for his own amusement. Remus snorted, clapping his father genially on the shoulder. "Never mind."

"Payment comes Monday. I don't know … I don't know about that stuff." Lyall shuffled his feet uncomfortably. "Your mother always handled that stuff, you know. What's the difference between a fiver and a tenner? Isn't that what they call them? Who knows?"

"Dad, it's five." Remus showed his father his open hand, chuckling again. "It is simple math. Ten minus five is five; it'll always work out the same, I promise. The bills have these numbers on them, you see. You really can't function in Muggle society without Mum, can you? Tell you what. You ask this fellow to draft a cheque. I'll handle it."

Lyall smiled at him, relieved. He knew Remus thought this was funny, but money, whether Muggle or magical currency, stressed him out. The bills always got paid, usually on time, though things had always been tight. When he and Hope had married, he was well off. Whenever things went downhill with Remus, six years into their marriage, he'd poured everything into lycanthropy research. And Lyall had no idea what he was doing on that score, so the money had simply evaporated. Of course, they had a Healer on their side now, but he'd gotten used to living on practically nothing.

"Oh, I almost forgot." Lyall reached into his coat when Remus turned to leave. Although he didn't always come out and say it, Lyall was immensely proud of his son. He handed over a small gift. Money was definitely easier to come by with Lyall living on his own nowadays. Remus shook his head, saying he didn't need anything. He always said that. "Open it, Professor."

Remus opened it, frowning at him. He lifted a handsome pocket watch out of a black box.

"It's an Ezra Pace design from his early collection! 1912." Lyall beamed at him, staring at him expectantly. "It's not a knock-off, either. Isn't it beautiful? It's like Grandfather Lupin's."

"Yeah, Dad, I can't take this." Remus, his voice catching in his throat, studied the design, rubbing his thumb over the year etched on the back. He slipped it back into the box, careful with the plastic covering. The thing cost a small fortune, and Lyall had been putting money back ever since Remus had told him of the teaching position.

"Nonsense. Remus, you're my favorite son." Lyall expected this line, his old standby, to fail. And it did, although Remus gave him a small smile. Did he have any idea what it took to find this thing? Lyall nodded, putting this discussion to rest. He dropped the pocket watch in Remus's open hand before he embraced him again. "I love you."

"I love you, too. Good luck with the poltergeist." Remus left him standing there, swinging the pocket watch like a pendulum from his hand sshe headed back up the Grand Staircase.

Lyall, noticing it was closer to seven than he expected, walked into the library. Nobody was in here except for the librarian who sat at the circulation desk. Books flew among the shelves freely. Lyall picked a spot and dumped his rucksack in a chair before he went perusing through the stacks. He had a name, which wasn't much to go on, but it was a starting point. Who was this Abraham Blanchard, and why would he pick Number Nine, Stafford Street as his permanent residence? It wasn't a resting place. Lyall dumped three volumes across his table and went searching for more. He needed more.

As he stood on a moving library ladder, he reached for the volume on the left _Botched Beheadings of Muggle Reigns_. Wondering how a book about Muggle monarchs had ended up on the shelf, he took this one out of pure interest. He flipped it open and searched the index. When a woman's voice cracked like a whip, Lyall fumbled around to catch the volume and grabbed the library ladder for support.

"What are you doing?" the severe-looking woman asked, cradling the three volumes Lyall had gathered in her arms. She wasn't too attractive, and she certainly had scared the living daylights out of him.

"Researching," he said, snapping the volume closed and climbing down. He pointed at the three texts in her arms. "Those are mine? I pulled them from the stacks."

"Students aren't allowed in the library after dinner. New security measures" She gave a matter-of-fact answer, pushing her spectacles up her nose.

"Good thing I am not a student," he said, waiting for the librarian to hand over the books. She didn't move. Lyall, glanced to the left and then to the right, completely stonewalled by this woman who was encroaching on his time. What could he offer her to make this problem go away? He went for an introduction. He laid his hand on his chest. "I'm Lyall Lupin."

"Irma Pince," she said shortly, moving her hand and telling the library ladder to move along with a wave go her hand.

 _She actually had to think about that one_ , he thought, crafting a compromise on the spot. He liked her hands because they were different, and she was obviously very protective of her books. Lyall went over to a book trolley and opened what resembled a large Kleenex box before slipping on a pair of document handling gloves. Lyall held up his hands in a gesture of surrender. He sometimes handled yellowed property deeds or old family trees, so he knew how to handle aged documents with the upmost respect.

"I promise you I'll re-shelve everything I touch, and put everything back in its proper place. You won't even notice I'm here." The librarian in his day would've jumped through hoops at this point. He relieved her of the books, somewhat surprised she didn't claw him, and returned to the table. Lyall wanted for her to object because these were not his things. After he set the books down, he walked around to the other side of the table and pulled out a chair for her. "You can sit with me if you don't trust me. I will be in and out. As quiet as church mouse, Madam Pince, I swear."

She said nothing. Well, the librarian said nothing directly to him anyway, although she did walk away muttering under her breath about privileges and sacrilege. Lyall tapped a lantern, lighting it, and took notes for an hour. Mr. Blanchard, he discovered, used to be a cook at the Leaky Cauldron. He'd died in a fire in 1609, yet Lyall needed more. Thinking it was way too early to scratch the surface, he continued reading. When he found that Timeless _Tales of Torture_ gave him no answers, he placed it back on the shelf. The volume left his hand and zoomed up to one of the very top rows.

At eight, he pressed on diligently, even though she came and sat beside him. He smiled, watching her move the lantern away from her precious books, and continued with his fact checking. They stayed there well into the night, and she sat beside him knitting with her long fingers. When she tired of this, Madam Pincecast a non-verbal spell and whatever she was knitting levitated itself so the needles worked of their own accord. Lyall found the clinking soothing.

"You can kick me out," he said, lowering his hand. He slipped back into his reading when she said nothing. "Come on, Abraham."

Madam Pince took off her feathered conical hat. "Who's that?"

Not really listening to her, Lyall got up to return his books to the shelves. She asked him again. "Oh, I'm sorry. Abraham Blanchard is swatting in a residence. I'm trying to find out why."

"Kick him out," she said, throwing out the obvious answer.

"He's a poltergeist," he said, drumming his fingers on the book about Muggle beheadings. Lyall liked that she let him talk at all. They were in a library, after all, and she could have fallen back on that old line about silence in the library. "I study creatures like Boggarts, poltergeists, and apparitions, though this is the fun part, if you really want to know."

She watched him flip through an aged book and handle the brittle pages with care. Madam Pince patted her dark hair and checked her watch, ignoring the late hour. "I like the smell of old parchment, and I'll waste ridiculous amounts of money on old editions of books."

Lyall wrapped up his notes and picked a stopping spot at random. He was tired, and his eyes hurt from reading. They no longer itched from the cat hair, and he took this as a good sign. She thought, perhaps, that he either didn't hear her to had chosen to ignore her altogether. Most people would have written her off as some crazy, old lady. Maybe it was because he lived a solitary life these days, but he thought he understood what she was saying.

Lyall got up, placed the book under his arm, and patted her shoulder with his free hand. "Me, too. Bookmarks save pages because there's no use in dog-earing them. I love those ribbon bookmarks in the fancy editions, you know?"

"Exactly." She nodded.

"Yeah." He turned to put his last book back, but he couldn't remember where he got it. She followed him, which he found both creepy and admirable at the same time. This woman trusted absolutely nobody. Well, he didn't know her from Adam, yet she acted like one of those paranoid people locked in a box. Lyall didn't even know why he agreed with her this last time around; it seemed right to fill in the pause. He turned back to her, a little embarrassed, and lifted the book. "I know I said I'd put everything back ..."

"You can borrow that one," she said, snatching it from him with a claw-like hand, walking over to make a note at the circulation desk before she handed it back to him. "Because this isn't yours, I want this back in two weeks' time. You may borrow it, and you may renew it if you don't get around to reading it, but it isn't yours."

"Two weeks," he promised, slipping it into his rucksack with thanks. He pointed back towards the stacks, not knowing whether it was his responsibility to clean up his misunderstanding mess. "Er, earlier when I said those texts were mine..."

"I know what you meant, Mr. Lupin. Good night."

Lyall turned to leave. He might've imagined it, but he swore he saw the sides of her mouth twitch.

Lyall settled the score with Mr. Blanchard. It turned out he was very conscious about fire safety, having died horribly in a fire and all, and he wanted anyone in the kitchen to be aware of such dangers. Because this would sound boring to the Muggle, he invented this whole story about a vengeful lover and a house fire. Whenever the cheque got cashed in the bank, the details ceased to matter. As long as the new owners, whoever they were remained vigilant and took the proper precautions, they were good, and Lyall saw no grounds to kick Mr. Blanchard out. Not all poltergeists acted like Peeves; some simply wanted to be heard.

He finished the book in a week. He didn't want any awkward questions from Remus, so Lyall invited Madam Pince out for a drink on New Year's Eve at the Three Broomsticks. He'd kept the book a little longer just to have an excuse to sed her again, and he felt better returning it in person. If he had returned it by owl post, and God forbid something had happened to the damned thing, she might've sent him a Howler or something cursed in a letter. When he spotted her in that hat, he got up and held the chair out for her. They sat in the back of the bustling pub, and people kept shooting him odd looks.

Lyall took her traveling cloak and draped it over her chair, careful not to let it brush the floor. He sat back down feeling like some awkward schoolboy. Is this how he had acted around Hope? Remus could walk through that door at any minute, and this could turn awkward in no time. Lyall twisted the wedding band on his finger unconsciously. He hadn't even realized he'd been doing it until she wrapped her long fingers around his wrist. Surprised, he raised his eyebrows.

"You're married." It was another matter-of-fact statement, not a question. Madam Pince released him.

"Yes. No." He winced when she frowned at him, her mouth falling into a severe line. Lyall took a deep breath, thanked Madam Rosmerta for his second mead, and held up his hand, taking his last answer back. How did a blundering idiot like him land a wife like Hope Howell thirty-four years ago? He cleared his throat, nervous, and reorganized his thoughts. "I was married. She was a lovely lady. She was Remus's mother, and I married her when I was thirty-one. We were married for twenty years. Remus is my son, by the way. I left that out.."

Madam Pince cut across him, guessing the rest of the story. She did this a lot, he noticed. "If she was so lovely, why did you divorce her?"

"I didn't. She passed away. She died thirteen years ago this March." Lyall smiled faintly at Madam Pince when he saw sadness pass over her face. The librarian apologized. He took her hand in his and turned it over. He could talk about it now without wanting to retreat inside himself. He bought her hand to his lips. "She liked to read. She usually had three or four books going at once, and she used the oddest things for bookmarks, too. A leaf, a quill, a spoon."

He stopped, for he was making her panic. "Didn't she know that ruins the spines?"

"They were cheap secondhand buys," he said, shrugging. He snapped his fingers, remembering her book, and conjured it with a wave of his wand. Lyall waited patiently as she searched through it, scrutinizing every detail. "I thought turning them facedown could harm the spine."

"It does, Mr. Lupin." Madam Pince set the book aside and sipped her drink.

"Lyall," he said, correcting her. He doubted whether she'd ever been married, yet he thought it was rude not to ask. She said she'd never been married. "I don't want to marry again."

Madam Pince finished her drink, and Lyall signaled for another one. He knew she was going to ask why. He'd gotten so used to having Hope by his side that he simply couldn't imagine getting to share that with someone twice. They'd helped each other through thick and thin, and they'd walked through hell with Remus. They were growing old together, and things were moving along quite nicely until life decided to throw them what Hope referred to as a curveball. It was a Muggle sports reference he didn't get. Before he knew what he was doing, he was sharing all of this with Madam Pince. She didn't interrupt him. Shortly before midnight, she took him outside, and they stood in the cold light rain.

He draped her traveling cloak over her shoulders. "I never told anyone about that curveball thing. Do you get it?"

"No. Look it up." Madam Pince hugged herself and continued to walk down the path. They listened to people whooping and celebrating nearby. "If I had to take a wild guess, I'd say it's something unexpected. It comes out of nowhere."

"Yeah." He caught a loose strand of her dark hair and held it with two fingers. It had fallen out of its bun and hung loosely around her shoulders. He reached up and took off her spectacles. "You should wear your hair down more often. And your eyes. You have beautiful eyes."

She flushed with with color, although he doubted this had anything to do with the cold night. He wanted to pay her another compliment, say something nice because Lyall remembered women liked that sort of thing. There were things that were strikingly different about her. She wasn't as beautiful as Hope had been. He wouldn't find Hope again. Lyall thought about sharing this with the librarian, for he was starting all over again, and he didn't really know what he was doing. He opened his mouth, closed, it, thinking, and the next thing he knew, he was kissing this woman. Or she was kissing him. She'd wrapped her claw-like hands around his neck and made her move when he parted his lips. Lyall, forgetting the third compliment altogether, pressed his lips against hers.

Things moved very slowly. Admittedly, Lyall had adjusted well to his life as a single man, and he enjoyed his quiet life. Two and a half years went by and he could comfortably say he was friends with the Hogwarts librarian. They swapped books and told each other a little of this and a little of that. Lyall didn't advertise this or anything; he respected her distance. Following the security measures put in place because the wizarding world was in a state of open warfare, he met Argus Filch twice that summer at Hogsmeade Station. As Mrs. Norris hissed at Lyall first thing and followed at his heels, Lyall secretly suspected the caretaker set the cat on him. They didn't say much during the short walk up to the castle. Lyall got the distinct impression this fellow didn't like him much, yet he couldn't put his finger on why.

Mr. Filch left him outside the library. Lyall dropped his things off at his usual spot. The librarian wasn't around, so he made himself at home and absent-mindedly propped his feet up in the chair next to him. He slipped off his rucksack and set it on the floor and picked up a random book. There was time to kill because there really was no deadline; people, the wealthy people, went away on fancy holidays whilst he investigated their castles. Leap Castle stood out in his mind as priority number one.

He heard the voices before he heard the footsteps. Thinking it would be fun to surprise her, or maybe because he was beyond bored, Lyall decided to hide amongst the bookshelves. Maybe he'd kill time searching for another obscure read the students wouldn't miss; he'd have a readymade excuse to see her next month. Lyall enjoyed the small of old parchment. Whenever he visited old Muggle universities, and this was rare, he sometimes stood in the cavernous rooms and took it all in. He grabbed a thin volume nestled between two big books in the Restricted Section. Lyall dropped it. It feel to the floor.

Not meaning to pry, despite the fact that he couldn't move without giving himself away, Lyall thought he had inadvertently spied on a private conversation. He wasn't supposed to wander into the Restricted Section, least of all touch the poor woman's books, without first asking for permission. Severus Snape stood on the next row, leaning over the librarian. He rested his hands on her shoulders. Lyall imagined Madam Pince, for he couldn't be sure because she had her back turned, running her long finger down an index.

"You are paranoid," said Professor Snape.

"I wonder why." Madam Pince snapped the book shut. Lyall, suddenly nervous, scooted along the bookshelf a few paces when she turned her head he hid among _Secrets of the Darkest Art_ and _Hogwarts, A History_. Lyall, unable to help himself because the second book was in the wrong spot, took it. Madam Pince wore her hair down today. When the professor sniffed sharply through his hooklike nose, she spun around and brushed his hair out of his eyes. Something slipped into her usual clipped tone. "Listen to me. This is not a game."

Professor Snape said nothing, his back still turned to Lyall. The professor stood up straighter.

"I tried to leave him twice," said Madam Pince shakily, clearly agitated as she writhed her hands and organized some books. Professor Snape mentioned he'd heard this story a hundred times, and frankly, she wore it thin. Madam Pince grabbed a book and slapped his hand away. Lyall, impressed, had to cover his mouth with his hand to keep from laughing. "I still dream about it. He dragged me back into that house in the middle of the night."

"I was there, madam, I remember." Professor Snape turned, and for a moment Lyall thought he'd been discovered amongst the stacks. But the professor merely moved the librarian's hair aside and kissed her sunken cheek. He sounded like he spoke an old, recited line. "You have nothing to worry about."

Madam Pince nodded and replaced the book on the shelf. She didn't drop the subject. "Why would you go back there, Severus?"

"It's my home," he said simply. When a book cart zoomed past them, he grabbed an armful of volumes and started checking them for signs of wear and tear. He flipped to the end of a volume and a smile touched his lips. "You threatened to curse someone over stealing this thing? It's nothing."

"It's a book," she said scathingly, snatching it from him and sticking it at the end of a bookshelf. A smile touched her red lips. "I get my chuckles where I can."

"You are a strange woman, madam." Professor Snape shook his head and disappeared among the bookshelves. He returned a few minutes later and wrapped his arms around her. He lowered his voice, though Lyall caught every word. "If Tobias ever comes near you, although I've told you he's probably lying dead in a ditch somewhere, I will kill him myself. What did I say?"

"I have nothing to worry about."

"You have nothing to worry about." Professor Snape kissed her on her forehead and swept from the library. The doors slammed behind him.

Lyall, confused, retreated back to his table. Yes, he decided, he was definitely not supposed to see that. He propped his feet in the chair again and got comfortably lost in a book, or at least he pretended to. When Madam Pince came out from behind the bookshelves, she took one of the volumes and hit him with it in the back of the head before she strode off towards the circulation desk.

Madam Pince's face betrayed no hint of what had happened back there in the stacks. "Your feet belong on the ground, Mr. Lupin. Do that again and I shall throw you out."

"Do you do that with everyone?" He put his feet down.

"Do you do that with every chair?" Madam Pince repaired a couple book covers with a tap of her wand and set them aside.

She retreated back into what he guessed was her office; it was hidden behind a concealed wall. Anyway, it was her private quarters. Lyall frowned, thinking the woman could use more sun. She needn't hide among these collections on anice day like this one. He went back to his reading.

Minutes later, he heard her screaming. Lyall sprang from his chair, knocking the he had been resting his feet on over. His book landed facedown on the floor. Jumping into action, he ran over and held his wand aloft. Where a door had appeared moments ago, there was nothing but a blank wall. She screamed like something or someone was killing her! Lyall banged on the wall, tried a few simple spells, but he couldn't get in.

"Madam, I can't get in. Open the door!" He spoke in a dead calm, not wanting to frighten her to death. She sounded like she was fighting someone off. Lyall knelt on the floor, thinking about this because he recognized the signs. He sighed, knocking on the door. The figure, whoever her attacker was, made no sound. "Madam, come to the door, please."

"No." She eventually found her voice.

"Okay. We can work with that. What do you see?" Lyall decided to talk her through this, for he had done this before with other people. She said his name was Tobias; the librarian said absolutely nothing else. "Where did Tobias come from?"

She moved in the bedroom and crawled over to the door. "The ... the wardrobe. Get me out of here. GET ME OUT!"

"No. Here's not there. Nothing is there." Lyall shifted his position on the floor and heard what he needed to hear. She asked frantically for Professor Snape. "No, no, this is your problem. You hold the power here. Look..."

Lyall rested his face on his open palm, for he felt really, really stupid. How had he not asked her name after all this time? Granted, he saw her off and on, but that was basic first day stuff. He laughed, despite the seriousness of the situation. Luckily, she was too trapped inside herself to tell him off, so Lyall gathered himself.

"What's your name?"

"Eileen," she said this in such a small voice he barely caught it. When she said it the second time, she sounded a little stronger. "Eileen Prince."

"All right." Well, that answer made no sense whatsoever, though he'd mull over that one later. He went with it. "Eileen, you're probably going to have to do this more than once, but that's all right because I'm here. What's funny to you?"

"What?" Madam Pince snapped him, momentarily falling back into her brisk manner.

"Just answer the question," he said, pinching his nose, growing slightly annoyed with her. He prompted her again. "Eileen?"

"An egg separator." She invented wildly, catching her breath.

This stumped Lyall for a moment. "A what? That's a thing?"

"You know, it pulls the yolk away from the egg whites. It's a Muggle contraption. It doesn't matter! Are you helping me or having a laugh?" Eileen moved, sounding like she got to her feet. "I'm familiar with the idea. It's a Boggart, right? He's ... he's not there. Talk me through this."

"You know the incantation?"

"Yes, I've done this before. He's not there. You're not there! No. _Riddikulus_! _Riddikulus_!" Lyall got to his feet when she opened the door after casting the spell four times, sounding more confident with each renewed attempt. She fell into his arms, unsteady on her feet, and backed off when he said her name. Her face drained of color. "What did you just call me!"

"Eileen?"

Lyall backed off, for he'd almost crossed the threshold into her small bedroom before she slammed the door in his face. The wall appeared there again. She cursed. Lyall laughed again, sure she'd heard him this time. He turned to leave, thinking he'd definitely said something wrong, but for the life of him, Lyall couldn't figure out when he'd taken a wrong turn. What on earth had he done wrong? Reflecting on how this went much better this went with his wife, though there was no way he could've possibly planned this, Lyall turned to leave when she opened the door to her private chambers and headed towards the door. Her greying hair fell down her back in a single plait, and she'd reapplied her lipstick.

She held the door open. "Well? Are you coming or not?"

"I ... I don't know. Yes? Yes." Lyall got hurriedly to his feet and left his things at the table.

He followed her. Eileen said nothing as they strode up flights of stairs. In fact, the two of them might've as well have been strangers. When she passed Professors Flitwick and Snape, the potions master gave her questioning look, yet she only touched his shoulder for the briefest moment before she dropped her hand and continued on her way. They didn't stop until they reached the Owlery. After checking to make sure the coast was clear, Eileen locked the door. She paced the place, not really careful of owl droppings, and she writhed her hands again like she was in actual physical pain.

Lyall rested his hand on the door. "Professor Snape is right. You are paranoid."

"You heard that? How dare you!"

"Heard what?" Lyall quelled at her look. "I'm sorry. It was purely by accident. I'll forget it."

"Are you in contact with him? I knew Tobias would find me. They ... they said it was nothing." The librarian drew out her wand and pointed it at his throat. "I will not go back to that man, you hear me? Tobias has everything. I have nothing left to give! I got out. I'm not going back to hell."

"I swear to God I have no idea what you're talking about." Lyall stared at her wand, frightened. Studying his face carefully, the librarian offered him a hand and he took it. "Who're you?"

"I've told you that," she said impatiently, waving his question away. Walking again, she passed a shaky hand over her face. "All right, were going to do this thing where I say something, and then you say something, and it continues in that pattern."

Lyall scoffed. "Talking?"

"Yes, let's go with that." Eileen perched herself in one of the large windows. "Tell anyone this, and I shall take this to my grave. Nobody hears this. Not a soul."

Lyall nodded.

"When I was nineteen, I married the first man who told me he loved me. We married ... and things changed. Of course, it took me years to understand my mistake, and by the time I did, I had this little boy, and I ... I couldn't..."

Lyall watched her unravel in front of him.

"Severus is my son."

"Yeah, I got that." He relaxed a little when she smiled. She was quite pretty in the sunlight. If she bothered with a fancier makeup, Eileen might pass for attractive. Actually, he'd been playing with the idea that the professor and the librarian having a thing, so he was relieved to be proved wrong. He took a wild guess. "This man, Tobias, hurt you?"

"Every night. I used to work at a Muggle library. He'd go to work at night, he'd come home after last call at the pub. He'd take me to bed." She sat there reeling off facts again. "When it pleased him, he did whatever he wanted. Tobias yelled at me, he apologized to me, he hit me, and then he said he loved me. Love. That word carries absolutely no meaning for me anymore."

Lyall, appalled and nauseous, stood there, wanting her to stop and go on at the same time.

"He bought me these beautiful books, until it dawned on me, he wanted me in the house. Tobias wanted more control. I think this was after the second time I tried to leave? Yes." Eileen got lost in her thoughts. "Did you know you can lose your magical abilities under stress?"

Lyall shook his head.

"I didn't either. Oh, Tobias never touched Severus. It was the only kindness he ever spared him. Bit strange, really. Tobias called me his little wife. I hated that. I saw an advertisement in the _Daily Prophet_ in 1975. When I got the post, I told him I was leaving, really leaving him, Tobias attacked me in the kitchen."

"What'd you do?"

Eileen hesitated. "I took a knife out of the block and stabbed him. As Severus likes to tell me, there comes a point when enough is enough. I left after I found a vial of the Draught of Living Death in the spare cupboard. Severus hid it there."

"What?" Lyall paled. The potions master was a dangerous man. "How old was your son at this time?"

"Fifteen. Severus has only ever loved one other woman, and he does not play around when it comes to me."

Lyall raised his eyebrows, suddenly frightened of the potions master. "Apparently."

His chest constricted. Eileen reached inside her robes and held a vial up to the light. It was a clear liquid. Did he really know this woman? Sure, they enjoyed spending time together, yet she was ready to label him as some spy in cahoots with a husband she hadn't seen in years. Did he really want to go down this road with a woman who suffered from severe problems? She had a dark past.

"I am not some mad woman. But I am not going to go down without a fight because I have been down that road, and I will not be treated to forget I am a human being again. I can't ... I think about him and ... it took me years to come back. We're done talking about this. Why am I telling you this?" She slipped the vial inside her black robes again and walked away from him.

Instead of letting her go and pretending this never happened, Lyall reached out and took her by the arm. "I think you're lonely because you hide among your stacks. And you're frightened."

Lyall expected her to rage at him or at least call him a liar before she stormed out. What did he know? Lyall spent his life with the dead and figures that weren't wholly present in either the Muggle or magical world. He, too, felt extremely lonely, and he recognized it in her. Had this Tobias person been even a halfway decent bloke, he might've had a shot at a completely different life. This had been a one-way conversation. She did leave. Thinking his track record wasn't something to brag about, Lyall paced the Owlery with his hands in his pockets. Why did he say stupid stuff like this? He spewed word vomit, and he couldn't help himself.

He decided to give her five minutes, so they wouldn't pass in the corridors or run into each other. Eileen came back in three. Before he could string a coherent sentence together, she'd started kissing him again.

He broke the kiss apart, pointing at the open door. "So, you do this walking away thing a lot? Everything pisses you off?"

"Shut up." She actually laughed when he lifted her off the ground and spun her around before he started kissing her. Eileen held his face in her hands. "You can't tell me you love me."

Lyall nodded. He suggested that they keep this from their sons, and she laughed again, a sound Lyall found he liked, and Eileen said she took this as a given. This could end in a day, or a month, or a year, or perhaps it wouldn't go anywhere, and they'd stay good friends. Lyall needed a good friend, and perhaps she wanted someone. He set her down, feeling awful that this was probably the least romantic setting in the world. Before they walked downstairs, he handed her some book written by an American author; he'd found the book hidden in junk in a consignment shop. She thanked him, took his hand, and they retreated into the library together. 


End file.
